


It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

by Anonymous



Category: Knight & Rogue - Hilari Bell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, M/M, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Fisk/Michael.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

**Author's Note:**

> This was for one of the people who never got back to me about what they wanted.

Frost had flowered across the window of the glass like something out of a painting, concealing any view someone inside the apartment might have had of the raging blizzard outside.

            Despite this, inside the apartment was warm enough—the radiator was on at full blast, Michael was in the kitchen baking something in the oven, humming Christmas songs as the air thickened with the scent of something sweet, and Fisk was sprawled lazily on the couch with a book in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other.  The room was cast in muted shades of orange, red, and yellow from the Christmas lights that Michael had, to Fisk’s chagrin, insisted on hanging up around their apartment’s perimeter.

            “I love this weather,” said Michael cheerfully, popping open the oven to check on whatever confection he had cooked up inside, before shutting it and smiling brightly in Fisk’s direction.

            Fisk glanced up from his book to stare at his friend.  Unlike Fisk, Michael had no trouble getting into the holiday spirit.  The twenty one year old was wearing a deep red sweater vest that should have been stylish if it weren’t for the tacky snowflake pattern decorating it.  He was infused with a little more of that enthusiastic energy that he carried with him at all times than he usually was, and Fisk was pretty sure that he had a smudge of powdered sugar along his temple.   As always, even in the dark heart of a storm in the middle of winter, Michael’s entire demeanor was sunny, lightening up the entire room just by existing.

            “Yeah, yeah,” said Fisk, trying to hide the small, fond smile that was struggling to work its way across his mouth by lifting his cup of hot chocolate to his lips.  “Well, that’s only because it hasn’t trapped you in with the most irritating bastard to ever walk the face of the planet.”

            Michael’s smile dimmed a bit, and Fisk was suddenly overcome with the utterly irrational worry that maybe he had gone a bit too far, when Michael shook his head and chuckled. “Hardly, instead, I’ve been trapped with the most pessimistic one.”

            “Ha, ha,” said Fisk dryly, worry assuaged, and turned back to his book.

~~~

            He wasn’t sure how it had happened.  He had been so sure that everything was fine, because, hell, that was hardly the most insensitive thing that Fisk had ever said (or done, for that matter) to Michael.  Not by a long shot.

            But Michael was definitely acting different. It had taken a while for Fisk to notice, as the changes were rather subtle, but they were definitely there.  Michael’s smile was a little more sedate now, his day to day enthusiasm dampened, and more than anything else, he was quieter than he had been before.

            And it irritated Fisk.  Not that he’d ever admit it, even under threat of torture, but he had gotten rather used to the positivity that was an inherent part of Michael’s personality.  He’d become accustomed to Michael’s unceasing blathering; maybe even come to like it a bit.  But now it had stopped, and he was at an utter loss for what to do.

            He’d tried to a bit of investigating (which, Fisk assured himself, wasn’t that creepy, and certainly not a sign that Michael’s detective obsession was rubbing off on him) and double checking with Kathy that there wasn’t anything particularly tumultuous going in Michael’s shitty family life, Fisk could only reach one possible conclusion.

            He had hurt Michael’s feelings.

            It didn’t make very much sense, but when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, right? (Oh God, Fisk groaned internally, Michael was definitely rubbing off on him…)

            Now he had to do something about it.

~~~

If you asked Fisk, most holidays were a scam. And no, he wasn’t paranoid or over suspicious, as most people would probably accuse him of being.  It was a fact, plain and simple.  People got loose with their money when during holidays, God knows why,  and so the rich and the greedy behind large corporations pushed as much hype into the holidays in order to increase profit, and thus, their own wealth.  It was common sense.

            Not only that, but there wasn’t much point in them, as far as Fisk was concerned.  He hadn’t really celebrated holidays since he was—what was it now? Thirteen?—and he couldn’t say he felt any particular desire to start that habit up again.

            But Michael loved the holidays, a fact of which Fisk was well aware.  In the four years they’d known each other, Michael had dressed up for every Halloween, personally cooked each Thanksgiving meal (though to him, it was more about getting together with friends and family, and not celebrating the shitty relationship between the Native Americans and the pilgrims), and thrown a party every New Years and Easter.

            Fisk very rarely participated, preferring to stand by the wayside as the others celebrated, and aside from pestering Fisk to help out every once in a while, and trying to encourage him to be a little more cheerful—which tended to be a year round thing anyways, Michael had always been surprisingly respectful of Fisk’s refusal to celebrate most holidays, something that was especially odd if you considered how pushy Michael could be when it came to other aspects of Fisk’s life.

            This made it rather ironic that the one holiday Fisk did celebrate, Christmas, was the only one he had never, in four years, been able to celebrate with Michael.  That wasn’t to say that Fisk was crazy about the holiday, of course, but the truth was that even after he had left his family he took care to continue to exchange gifts with his sisters and occasionally (at Anna’s urging) Maxwell.

            But when it came to Michael, it was as if the universe had conspired to keep them apart from each other every December 25th using any means possible.

            The first Christmas they’d known each other, Fisk had been pressured into coming to visit his family to celebrate the holiday.  It hadn’t even occurred to him to ask if Michael might want to come along, not that it mattered.  Come December 26th, a conversation with a wrecked sounding Michael over the phone led to Fisk asking Michael to come anyways.  The next year, they had had an argument and were ignoring each other, and the one after that Michael’s father had had a heart attack.  Fisk couldn’t particularly say he cared about Mr. Sevenson’s heart attack beyond the fact that it had been very upsetting to Michael, but Michael took the next flight out to Michigan anyways.

            Fisk was pretty sure he wasn’t thinking as logically as he usually did, but though he knew that Michael probably would have been perfectly fine with a normal apology, he also knew that Michael very much preferred that emotions be conveyed through gestures rather than words.  And the idea to give Michael a nice Christmas as sort of an apology wasn’t a bad one, Fisk thought.  Michael would certainly appreciate it.

            Later on, he would look back and wonder if the eleven days of hair-pulling, maddening frustration could have been avoided had he just called Kathy and fucking asked her. But, knowing Kathy, who was sweet, but who Fisk had been somewhat scared might try to kill him if he told her he’d hurt Michael’s feelings, she would have just laughed and hung up the phone.

~~~

            His plan was a failure.  After a week and a half of dodged questions, hasty exits, and uncomfortable silences, Fisk was fed up.  He had tried using trickery to get the answers that he needed out of Michael, trying to gently nudge their conversations into Christmas territory, but as always, the blond remained oblivious.  Then, he had tried some less dignified methods, looking through Michael’s browsing history (which Fisk maintained wasn’t that underhanded—Michael had given him the password for a reason, right?) and even getting Michael drunk.  And what did Fisk get for all of his effort?

            Jack shit, that’s what. Jack shit. And a hangover.

            It had taken exactly eleven days for Fisk to crack, and he had cracked pretty hard.

            “For Christ’s sake!” he snapped finally, walking into their shared living room and fisting his fingers in his hair in frustration. “You’re killing me!”

            Michael looked up at Fisk from where he lay; the entirety of his lanky body curled up to fit on the loveseat, and blinked bleary eyes in his direction.  The blond sighed and sat up, keeping his legs cross-legged in his seat as he did so.  All the hair on the left side of his head was ruffled, and it wasn’t until Michael yawned that Fisk realize it was well past midnight and that  Michael was asleep—or at least had been until Fisk had come storming in.

            “Why were you asleep in the loveseat?” inquired Fisk, flushing slightly out of embarrassment. He didn’t feel that bad, to be honest.  Unlike Fisk, Michael typically slept like a man in the grave, which meant that Michael could have only just drifted off, but that didn’t make it any less awkward.

            “Oh,” said Michael. “I was just thinking about something, and I guess I fell asleep. I’ve been pretty tired lately.” Michael tilted his head to the side curiously, eyes, which had only seconds ago been unfocused and drowsy, rapt with attention. “Now, what’s this about me killing you?”

            Michael’s voice rang with sincerity, flavored with layers of genuine interest and empathy.  It was the voice that he adopted when talking to children or the emotionally distressed.  It was the type of voice that made you want to share your secrets; it promised comfort and understanding—a voice any therapist would kill to master.  Hell, Michael had used it on Fisk a thousand times.  But this time seemed a bit different.  A discordant note in Michael’s typically soothing voice.  A hint of—Fisk struggled to pick up on it—anxiety?

            He elected to ignore it for the moment, speaking in a frustrated voice that held no real heat. “Christmas, Michael. Christmas. I’ve been working my ass off to actually do something nice for once, and you,” he jabbed a finger in Michael’s direction, “are not being very cooperative.”

            The room fell so silent that you could have heard a pin drop. And then, Michael said, voice completely atonal: “What.”

            Fisk took a deep breath.  This was not how he had wanted this to go. “I hurt your feelings two weeks ago, didn’t I? When I called you an ‘irritating bastard’? I don’t know why, I do it all the time, not even behind your back, mind you. Not to mention I’ve said far worse things. But you’ve been acting different since then and that’s the only thing I could possibly think of—and before you mention it, I did call Kathy and make sure everything was going okay with your family. And…I don’t know, I thought that if I gave you a nice Christmas that might help make it up to you? Because I know I can be harsh and that sometimes it drives people away—” he was starting to sound desperate now. Insecure. But he had to make sure Michael knew. “—But I was just teasing you, you know that right?  Because I wouldn’t, you know, intentionally hurt you…or anything like that.”

            It was a bumbling speech, and Fisk cursed internally.  He was typically so much smoother with his words.

            It was quiet again, and then Michael, who had been stunned into silence by Fisk’s outburst, made a series of facial expressions as he tried to process the information. In the end, Michael’s lips finally broke into a blinding smile as he said: “Well, I find it extremely sweet that you went to such measures after thinking you hurt my feelings—which you didn’t by the way, so please don’t worry—but…Fisk, I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

            Now, it was Fisk’s turn to be shocked into silence.

            When it became apparent that Fisk wasn’t about to say anything anytime soon, Michael’s grin became sheepish and he said: “I thought you knew.  My father is a hardline atheist, he refuses to celebrate any holidays even vaguely associated with religion, and my mother is Jewish…so I never celebrated it growing up and I just…never started, I guess.”

            “Oh,” said Fisk, finally finding his voice, though it was more strangled than usual. “But you’re always humming Christmas songs …and you own all those holiday sweaters.”

Michael brushed his hair out of his eyes and gave Fisk an amused glance.  “The music is kind of hard to escape,” he said. “Are you going to tell me you’ve never gotten one stuck in your head?  And plus, the sweaters are cute.” The last part was said with a kind of shameless honesty that Fisk was pretty sure only Michael could pull off.

 Still, Fisk chuckled a bit.  It was just like Michael to get caught up in the cheer of a holiday he didn’t even celebrate. And then his brow furrowed questioningly.  “Then…why have you been so upset recently?”

            And just like that, Michael withdrew.  It was only slightly, but it was noticeable, the way the curve of Michael’s lips flattened immediately and the way his body stiffened slightly.

            “It’s…” Michael sighed, looking like he was struggling with how to put his next words. “I’m not…it’s something I have to work through on my own, okay?”

            “No, it isn’t,” Fisk tried to adopt Michael’s earlier, comforting tone.  He was fairly sure he failed miserably, comfort wasn’t his forte, but he tried anyways. “I can…um, help. If you want.”

            Michael gave a small laugh, that sounded much more unhappy than Fisk thought a laugh, especially one of Michael’s, had any right to be.

            “You really couldn’t help with this,” Michael assured.

            “I’m sure I could, if you just let me try,” countered Fisk sternly, abandoning Michael’s method of speech and borrowing Judith’s.  Gentle, but firm. And a little irritated.

            Michael sighed, bringing his eyes up from the floor to look into Fisk’s.  Fisk wasn’t sure what Michael saw there, but the blond sighed, slumping a bit, and when he spoke next it was softly. “You couldn’t help me because you aren’t into guys, Fisk.”

            It took a second for the words to make sense in Fisk’s head, and then he had to sit down on the coffee table in shock.

            Michael’s face was pink with embarrassment, and there was a hint of dread in his eys.

            And when Fisk responded, it was in the gentlest of tones. This one, his own. “Oh,” he said, leaning forward and putting his hands on Michael’s shoulders. “Michael Sevenson…all this trouble because you were too scared to tell me you had feelings for me?  Did you really think I’d judge you?”

            Michael paused, ducking his head shamefully. “No, of course not, I know you’re better than that—I just…I was…” Michael didn’t need to finish, Fisk knew what he was going to say next, God knows that Fisk had had the same crisis when he was younger.  It had been horribly embarrassing (albeit relieving) to finally come out to his family only to receive a course of: Oh, that’s it? and a hard slap on the back of his head from Judith when he’d inquired about it, along with a We already knew, dipshit.

            “And by the way,” continued Fisk, cutting Michael off. “I am.”

            “Am what?”

            “Into guys.”

            Fisk would have felt bad about the fact that the internal crisis Michael had clearly been having for the past few weeks could have been avoided had he just known that tidbit of information, if it weren’t for the expression on Michael’s face now, which, in Fisk’s eyes, made it all worth it.

            And then when he pressed his lips to Michael’s, and the night seemed to stand still. It was something he’d wanted to do since…God, the day the two of them had met.  But Fisk had no doubt that had they kissed then, it wouldn’t have been nearly as amazing as it was now.  He supposed what they said was true, the longer feelings went unresolved, the better it was when they were.

            When they finally broke apart, Fisk gave Michael a suspicious glance. “You sneaky bastard,” he said. “You snuck a bit of tongue in there.”

            Michael, ever the blushing virgin, turned bright red. “You did it first!” he declared, voice defensive.

            “Did I?” said Fisk, stepping back in. “I don’t remember. I guess we’ll just have to try again to…jog my memory.”

            But Michael dodged the kiss, and turned and wrapped Fisk in a fierce hug, burying his face in Fisk’s shoulder and clinging to him tightly. Hesitantly at first, and then more openly, Fisk reciprocated the embrace, knowing that this was more intimate than any kiss they would ever share.

            “Happy holidays, Fisk,” said Michael.

            Fisk lifted his head up and looked into Michael’s eyes, before breaking out into the biggest smile that he would probably ever wear.  “To you too, Michael. To you too.”


End file.
